Oh yes, she was definitely angry. That flash of fire in her eyes. That tilt to her chin. It made him want to go to her and pull her into his arms, kiss her until she clung to him, until neither of them could tell where he ended and she began.
Her door slammed. She was good at slamming doors, he thought, and almost laughed.
Instead, as slowly as if he were a man twice his age, Marco sank into a chair and put his head in his hands.
He had made a mistake. Forget the old bromide about never missing business with pleasure.
Even more true was what he’d realized from the start. Emily didn’t belong in his life. Perhaps it was more accurate to say that he didn’t belong in hers.
What had just happened, her open show of joy at something as simple as the terrace instead of asking endless questions about where they were dining, how many Michelin stars it would have, the name of the celebrity chef, the famous people they might see…
How could such an innocent survive in his world? How could the superficiality of it not affect her?
Yes, he wanted to take her to bed. And he could do it. The cold truth was that he knew women, knew how to read the little signals they gave.
Emily melted against him when he took her in his arms.
She sighed when he kissed her.
The sweet little whimpers she’d made during those few moments on the plane when he’d touched her breasts…
He could have her on her back in less time than it took to think about doing it.
She would be sweet and she would be shy; she would learn what he wanted from her, what he wanted to do to her, what he wanted her to do to him. She would learn, and turn to flame, and their affair would be like none he’d ever known.
And then he would end it.
He was man meant for mistresses.
Emily was a woman meant for one man, one love, forever.
Marco shot to his feet, paced to the terrace, stepped onto it and stared out over the soot-stained old chimney pots of Paris.
He had been wrong to hire her. To bring her here.
He would send her home.
As far as an assistant was concerned… he could manage. He could contact the offices he had in Milan. Surely, they had someone on staff who could fly here and do the job. Or he could contact a French employment agency and hire a temp. Neither solution would be ideal; he had no way of knowing if Milan or an agency would send him someone who was competent but the truth was, he still didn’t know the degree of Emily’s competence, either.
He only knew that he had to put her out of his life, the sooner the better.
Marco checked his watch again.
It was too late to telephone Milan, too late to seek out an employment agency. And he had a dinner engagement in, Cristo, in forty five minutes.
Quickly, he walked down the hall.
His bedroom adjoined hers.
He stepped inside, slammed the door—hell, one good slam deserved another—peeled off his shirt, toed off his mocs, yanked off his jeans and boxers.
His tux—well, one of his tuxes—was hanging in the dressing room. He kept hotel suites in several cities, each stocked with whatever clothes he might need. Life was simpler that way. More efficient. It was a plan he had worked out years ago.
He strode into the bathroom, turned on the multiple sprays in the glass-enclosed shower.
Emily, on the other hand, would have two gowns to choose from. Which would she pick? He’d made arranging for the clothes sound easy. In actual fact, he’d spent almost an hour on the phone, first with the concierge, then with the personal shopper she’d contacted at a shop on the Rue de Rivoli.
“I want a dress. No. Two dresses. Also shoes, handbags, whatever is necessary, delivered to my suite,” he’d said briskly.